21
"I don't have much time," Cohen said as the Jeep bounced along the trail that wound through the sparse trees. "We have to get the other two patrols and get me back to the plant."
"I'm not sure I understand what's going on here," Bolan said.
"I'll explain later." Cohen smiled. "Right now all I care about is getting my sister out of there."
"Your sister? You don't mean?.."
"Yeah. I do."
So that explained it. Sort of. Rachel and Cohen were sister and brother. The Jeep was angling toward the fence. Bolan was watching for another spot where the trees closed to within a few yards of it. The going was rough. Cohen was driving without lights. He was trying to keep the engine noise down as well.
To their left, they could see the eerie outline of the plant through the trees.
"That looks like a good spot up ahead." Bolan pointed to a group of conifers about a hundred yards in front of them. The gap was wider than the last one, but they'd have to chance it.
"No good." Cohen shook his head. "There's a surveillance camera close by. We took one out getting in here. If another one goes down, somebody might notice."
"Suppose I just cripple the sweep mechanism. They're not as likely to realize it isn't moving."
"I guess we can chance it," Cohen said. "We'll have to hurry, though. The next patrol will be here any minute. There's another Ingram in the back. That AK-47 makes too much noise. You might as well chuck it."
Bolan reached into the back seat for the SMG. Its sound suppressor was already in place. There were some ammo clips as well. He grabbed two and stuffed them into the pockets of his coat.
Cohen killed the engine, and the two men sprinted toward the fence. Cohen dropped to his belly and wormed his way forward. Bolan did the same.
"There. See it?" Cohen pointed to a small projection on the top of the fence. It was nearly fifty yards past the spot they had chosen for their attack. "Think you can get it?"
"Watch me," Bolan said grimly. "I'm not ready for a TV career." Bolan waited to catch the dull flash of the camera lens, which meant it was pointing directly at him. When it came, he counted to ten and then sprinted for the fence.
Positioning himself at the base of the wire under the sweep area of the small camera, he studied the mechanical mount. A small servomotor was housed in the base. The sweep rate was slow. The servo emitted the barest of hums.
The camera was high above him. Getting to it without being seen was going to be tough. The lens was slowly panning back and forth. A small coaxial cable ran out of the camera's body and down the post into the ground. But there was another, smaller wire. It didn't run into the camera at all. It fed directly into the servo mount. The motor was on a separate line. He could cut the line without taking out the camera. It would freeze, but it would still work.
Bolan reached into his coat and withdrew a combat knife from its sheath. The six-inch tempered steel blade was more than enough to sever the power line. Now all he had to do was time it right. As he watched the camera move, he heard the sound of the patrol Jeep.
"Hurry up. Here they come," Eli Cohen urged in the world's loudest stage whisper.
The camera reached its limit and began to pan back away from the oncoming patrol. Wait.
Wait. And... now. Bolan sliced through the small cable and held his breath. The camera jerked once, then was still. They were home free.
And not a minute too soon. The headlights of the oncoming Jeep danced along the fence. Bolan sprinted back to Cohen and checked his SMG.
"Remember, we have to hit them before they get to that camera," Cohen cautioned. "Ready?"
Cohen made Bolan uncomfortable. The guy was a natural leader. A take-charge kind of man.
Two of them working together would lead to friction eventually. But there wasn't time for that now. They had too much to do. And too little time to do it in.
The Jeep cleared the last bend. Coming straight on, its riders looking nervously into the trees.
"You take the driver," Bolan said.
"Gotcha."
Closer, closer. The Jeep was now fifteen yards away, well within the Ingram's effective range.
"Now," Bolan whispered.
If Cohen replied, Bolan didn't hear him. He squeezed the Ingram's trigger and swept a tight figure eight with the SMG'S muzzle. It was too dark to see much, but Bolan had no doubt that the guard in the passenger seat never knew what hit him.
Cohen's target was the easier of the two. The driver had turned toward his passenger as if to confide in him. The burst from Cohen's Ingram caught him leaning. A narrow column of death stitched the man's side from neck to hip. The impact of the slugs drove him sideways. The steering wheel followed, and the Jeep careened into the fence.
The man's foot was still on the accelerator. The engine strained against the fence. Cohen was up and running, reaching the Jeep just as the fence post was beginning to bend. Cohen grabbed the driver by both shoulders, yanking him from the Jeep. The engine sputtered, then died.
"Three down and one to go," Bolan said as he joined the Israeli agent.
"Let's get this mess into the trees." Cohen hopped into the driver's seat. He restarted the engine and backed the Jeep hurriedly away from the fence.
Bolan grabbed the driver's corpse and threw it roughly into the back of the Jeep, then climbed in beside the dead man. The Jeep bounced through the snowy undergrowth. Straining through the occasional drifts, the engine seemed loud enough to wake the dead.
Bolan glanced at the man beside him and knew it wasn't that loud. Curious, he searched the dead man's pockets. There was nothing but a wallet.
He opened the wallet and flipped through the papers.
There was a driver's license, a couple of credit cards, business cards, a matchbook cover with a scribbled phone number, a couple of receipts.
In the photo section were several snapshots. Some showed the dead man, a woman who was probably his wife and two kids.
There was always something to make you wonder, Bolan thought. Wonder why a man would do the sort of things this guy did. And, worse, why you did what you did.
Why couldn't these assholes make the connection between people they cared about and people others cared about?
The Jeep stopped and Cohen jumped down. Bolan sat, staring idly at the photographs.
"Something wrong, Mack?"
Bolan sighed. He closed the photo section and flipped the wallet closed. He tucked it into the dead man's pocket and climbed from the Jeep. "No, nothing's wrong. Let's go."
Cohen looked at his watch. "I've been out here nearly an hour. I'll have to get back soon before Glinkov misses me."
Bolan nodded. "Listen, Eli. That son of a bitch is mine, understand? I want him."
"That all depends, Mack."
"On what?"
"Rachel. If she's okay, he's yours, but..."
Bolan clapped a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. He squeezed gently. He didn't have to speak. Cohen turned silently, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and rubbed his jaw. "We got work to do," he said.
The two men walked back to their own Jeep.
Each felt alone, and, as they walked side by side, the feeling was intensified by the knowledge of the other's loneliness. Cohen started the engine and backed the Jeep out into a small clearing where he could turn it around. He drove to the fence. Bolan hopped down and covered the evidence of their latest encounter. Back in the Jeep, he scrutinized Cohen's face, looking for some trace of Rachel. He saw none.